


Begin the Begin, Over and Over

by Hyperion327



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Fluff and Smut, Guilt, Implied Scott McCall/Isaac Lahey - Freeform, Intercrural Sex, It's just a lot of feelings and some spectacular sex, Lap Sex, M/M, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Teasing, What more do you need?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 20:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyperion327/pseuds/Hyperion327
Summary: Whatever the fuck this is, the longing looks, hiked up shirts and low-slung shorts on sharp hipbones, it goes no further. Derek will make goddamn sure of that. Stiles deserves better than some broken mess like him.-Stiles can see through Derek like a window. He can see the buried want, the shame he’s drowning in because of it, and the underlying guilt that he’s carried for the last seven years since Paige and all that followed. He can see that under the sharp swoop his styled hair and the perfect edge that he maintains his stubble, Derek is nothing but softness. Sure, he has a killer jaw, but his cheeks, the elegant flow of his neck into his broad shoulders, and the slope of his nose in profile are nothing but gentle curves and easy roads to travel. Derek is something soft pretending to be hard, but Stiles isn’t a fool.





	Begin the Begin, Over and Over

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have had the _worst_ writer's block lately. This one should've taken me a couple hours, it was two days. I'm working through it. I've recently started a new job, so hopefully a little change will get me out of whatever depressive millennial funk I'm stuck in now. Title is from 'Not in Kansas' by The National, and to find audio of it that isn't live consult with Apple Music and Spotify. Supplementary listening is 'Dance on Glass' by St. Lucia. Enjoy!

When it comes to form, Stiles is all edges, long lines and sharp turns in his biology. The untrained eye would say lanky, but Derek knows better. Stiles isn’t coltish, he just acts like it, simply because he hasn’t adapted to the changes puberty has wrought on his form. Below the clumsiness is a natural grace that is already showing itself in the way he holds himself, with a confidence that cannot be faked. 

The sharpest parts of Stiles aren’t his long, piano player fingers, nor his quick-witted tongue, nor even the undeniably cutting edge of his jaw. The sharpest parts of him are his eyes. Those amber irises, set under a perpetually cocked brow and framed by eyelashes so long they’re borderline feminine, cut clean through Derek. He has this cocky, knowing look in his eyes every single time he looks at Derek, almost teasing him.  _ ‘I know your secret’,  _ they say. 

It makes Derek’s gut churn with a thoroughly indigestible mixture of shame and desire. Stiles is a  _ kid,  _ for God’s sake, sixteen years old. He’s just finally coming into his own, he shouldn’t be chased after by a werewolf six years his senior with nothing but a traumatic past and a penchant for finding danger. And yet… 

No, there is no yet. Even if there was, it’s incumbent upon Derek, as the adult, as the dangerous one, as a moral fucking person, not to let the teasing glances and guilt-ridden lust go any further. To do so is just plain wrong, not to mention liable to land his ass in prison for a good sixteen months, maybe four years if Sheriff Stilinski is feeling vengeful, and he’d bet the full hundred million and change in the family vaults that Stiles’ father is a vengeful motherfucker.

Whatever the fuck this is, the longing looks, hiked up shirts and low-slung shorts on sharp hipbones, it goes no further. Derek will make goddamn sure of that. Stiles deserves better than some broken mess like him.

**-Ω-**

Stiles can see through Derek like a window. He can see the buried want, the shame he’s drowning in because of it, and the underlying guilt that he’s carried for the last seven years since Paige and all that followed. He can see that under the sharp swoop his styled hair and the perfect edge that he maintains his stubble with, Derek is nothing but softness. Sure, he has a killer jaw, but his cheeks, the elegant flow of his neck into his broad shoulders, and the slope of his nose in profile are nothing but gentle curves and easy roads to travel. Derek is something soft pretending to be hard, but Stiles isn’t a fool. 

His ADHD brain loves a good hyperfocus, and Derek is the strongest one he’s ever had. What started as a strange, beautiful man in the forest making Stiles question his sexuality and his life choices has become something infinitely more. He’s gotten to know Derek, piecing together the uneven slices of memory he’s managed to pry from him and filling in the holes, a Rorschach test of trauma, like throwing paint on a canvas and divining from the stains.

The truth is, Stiles  _ wants.  _ He wants with body and mind. Derek is fascinating, clever and kind, and past the surface, as beautiful as it is, that seventeen year old whose family was murdered is still there. Laura Hale, may she rest in peace, never found it in herself to soothe the boy trapped in a man’s body. She was far too buried in her own grief, consumed by a power she wasn’t meant to have for decades more.

He can’t take away the past, can never fully heal the damage that Kate Argent wrought upon him, but perhaps Stiles can take off just some of the load from Derek, and help him start on the long, agonizing road to forgiving himself. 

**-Ω-**

Pack night. Derek loves these little get togethers, though he’d deny it on pain of death. He’s just a little too proud to admit that this motley crew he’s assembled has started to feel like something close to family. Maybe someday, that’ll change, but for now, he has to keep the edge outward facing and the wall up.

“Stilinski, touch that can of Coke and I swear I will disembowel you!” Erica barks, laughing as she flashes her claws at him and Boyd is grabbing her by the waist, pulling her down to sit on his lap and burying his face in the crook of her neck. 

Stiles smirks as he pops the tab on the last can of Coke in the loft. “Promises, promises, Erica.” He teases, raising one of those damned eyebrows over the rim of aluminum can as his Adam’s apple bobs with the flush of his swallow.

“Play nice.” Derek instructs as he browses through the Netflix queue. 

Isaac snorts. “You’re talking about Stiles.  _ ‘Nice’  _ isn’t a word in his vocabulary.”

“Bitch.” Stiles mutters.

“See what I mean?”

The alpha rolls his eyes. “Cut your shit, then, all of you. Movie’s starting.”

Everyone moves in around the flatscreen, and Stiles, goddamn him, has decided to plop himself on the floor, leaning against the armchair Derek has settled himself in. He knows he could make him move with just a subtle kick or a shift of the leg, but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to. What he wants is to pull Stiles up into his lap hold him there, to bury himself in the nooks and crannies where he knows another soul has never been. He wants to be deconstructed by those clever hands. 

Instead, he tolerates his presence, grounding himself in the heartbeat that always runs fast, and the lilac and sugar scent cut by the harsh edge of his Adderall. Derek is acutely aware of Stiles and his every move as he leans back, sprawling out across the rug. He’s made even more aware when the younger man’s hand drifts to rest on his foot, only the thin layer of Derek’s sock separating their skin, and that does nothing to stop the heat exchange between them. Logically, Derek knows that he runs warmer than Stiles, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like fire is crawling up his leg and leaving embers to smolder in his groin. God, this is the sweetest torture. 

Though he doesn’t turn to face him, Derek can see Stiles smirk by the light of the television. His scent begins to have just the barest edge of arousal, and Derek desperately tries to lock down on his body’s reactions before his own scent gives him away to the others. As a rule of thumb, the humans around them get more leeway when it comes to their physiology. They’re just less aware, less in control. The alpha, though? Oh, he’d never hear the end of it. As it is, Boyd and Erica tease Isaac enough for every boner he pops because of Scott, what would they say if they found out how much Stiles makes him melt?

So proceeds the rest of the evening. Stiles just simmers easy, satisfied in his desire, and Derek tries not to combust like a pressure cooker left on too long. As the movie wraps up, Erica and Boyd are the first to slip away, and Isaac trails like a golden retriever after Scott. Lydia and Jackson pack it up not long after, and Derek is left alone with his temptation.

“I don’t need any help cleaning up, Stiles.” He says, proud of the way he keeps his voice from cracking. 

Stiles just stretches out on the couch, his shirt riding up to reveal the creamy skin of his stomach and the dark, tantalizing happy trail running into his khaki shorts. “I’m comfy, and I don’t have a curfew.” He says. 

_ “Stiles.”  _ Derek barks. 

“Yes?” The boy drawls out, smirking at him with those goddamn knowing eyes.

“Go home.”

Stiles blinks at him with wide doe eyes, the cutting edge replaced by a mockery of innocence, and Derek is helpless but to control the rush of heat to his groin. “Is that really what you want, Der?”

“Yes, dammit.” He shoots out, gritting his teeth.

“You’re a piss-poor liar, Derek Hale.” Stiles says, still laying there on the couch. In fact, the little shit stretches further, rucking his shirt up higher.

In an instant, Derek is inches from his face, eyes blazing alpha red, and growling from deep in his chest, the sound low and menacing. “Get up.” He orders, an inhuman edge to his voice. 

For a moment, Stiles’ eyes go wide, and then they get that fucking glean in them, and Derek is made more furious. Before he can even react, however, Stiles is there, crowding into his space and pressing his lips to Derek’s in a desperate, breathless kiss. The alpha cannot move for a second, far too stunned to respond, and then, all at once, he just fucking  _ breaks.  _ Derek practically collapses on top of Stiles, and he licks at the younger man’s lips, pleased when he’s obliged entrance. Stiles, for his part, presses his whole body against Derek’s with all the strength he has in his lean frame. Through the layers of their clothes, he can feel the higher temperature of the werewolf’s body, and the silken steel of his erection. The friction at their groins is enough to drive their lips apart, each panting and groaning into the air. 

“Clothes, off, now.” Stiles manages to bite out. 

Derek peels himself off of him, and immediately ditches the grey henley he’s worn all evening, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest. Stiles does the same, and though he has no definition, he’s still so fucking beautiful, especially his entire body flushes red with desire. The sight of it makes Derek preen with pride.  _ He  _ did that. He, Derek Hale, has reduced this ridiculous, seductive, foolhardy, fucking wonderful boy, to a panting mess driven mad by lust. 

Without further delay, he picks him up and carries the younger of the two up the spiral staircase to the second story of the loft, throwing him onto the bed and strips himself of the tight jeans he’s worn all day, and Stiles does the same. For a moment, they just eye each other, each drinking in the sight of his lover in just his underwear, erections straining obscenely against fabric. For Derek, he can’t help but inhale as deeply as possible through his nose, and the strength of their combined scent is enough to make a drop of precum blossom across the pale blue fabric of his boxers. 

“Fucking come here, Sourwolf.” Stiles orders, pulling off his undergarments to reveal the length of his cock, more long than thick and circumcised, resting on a trimmed bed of chocolate brown curls. 

Derek does the same, exposing his own uncut length that curves upwards towards his stomach and is surrounded by a black thatch that has never been shaved. He steps forward, and falls into the human’s arms, meeting him halfway in kiss that goes off like a supernova of snaking tongues and wandering hands. In an instant, Stiles has a hand around Derek’s prick and is inexpertly jerking him off, clearly unused to the ease with which the foreskin moves over the wet head of his cock. It doesn’t matter, though, because it’s everything Derek has ever needed, and he groans into Stiles’ mouth as he’s masturbated. 

He wraps his legs around the human’s waist, and guides the younger man’s cock backwards to rest in the cleft of his ass. Immediately, Stiles begins to thrust upward, clearly catching the hint. It’s imperfect, and yet, it’s absolutely right for the moment. He moans sweetly against the skin of Derek’s neck, having broken the kiss to catch his breath. 

Derek whimpers, gnawing at his lips as Stiles’ cock catches against the rim of his ass, precum easing the slide of flesh on flesh. As the younger man finally catches his rhythm in both the slide of his hips and the method he uses on Derek’s cock, he smiles triumphantly. “So fucking beautiful for me, Derek.” He groans. 

“You’re perfect.” Derek whispers hotly into his ear. “Wanted you… for  _ so long.  _ Since you two tried to find Scott’s inhaler, and you stood there gaping like an idiot at me while you smelled like  _ mine.”  _ He confesses.

“Oh, me too, baby, me fuckin’ too.” He replies, pulling him into another kiss.

The two of them keep going, Stiles thrusting roughly against the hot skin of Derek’s ass as he brings him home with his hand. After a few minutes longer, Derek again breaks their kiss to keen into the air, his eyes flashing red on pure instinct. 

“Fuck, Stiles, I’m gonna, oh, God…” __

Long trails of white paint their way up both of the men’s chests as Derek moans brokenly into the heavy, sex-scented air, his arms desperately clinging to Stiles’ shoulders and the claws that have formed on his fingers raking long, red lines over his pale skin. All the while, Stiles is there, whispering beautiful, filthy things into the older man’s ear, telling how beautiful he is, how absolutely wonderful he feels, and Derek believes him. 

When the aftershocks finally cease and Derek comes back to himself, he becomes conscious of the desperate way Stiles is still rutting against his ass, and promptly eases himself out of his lap, only to have Stiles whimper at the loss of contact. He shushes him, and slides his way down to where the younger man’s cock lies flat against his stomach, hard and leaking. 

“What are you-  _ fuck!”  _ Stiles curses, threading his fingers through Derek’s hair as he wraps his lips around the head and surrounds it with the most delicious heat and moisture. 

It only takes a few seconds until he feels that familiar pull in his groin, more powerful than it ever has been before, and he’s babbling out a warning that he is about to finish, but Derek redoubles, taking him to the root and swallowing, burying his nose in the brown curls at the base and savoring the taste as Stiles goes off like a bomb in his mouth, swearing and groaning as he tugs pleasantly at the roots of his hair. Just as the human did for him, Derek eases Stiles through the aftermath of his climax, gently tugging at him and extending the afterglow for as long as he can.

The werewolf grabs a dirty tee shirt from the floor and wipes the two of them up with it. Once they’re clean, Derek slides back into the sheets, unsurprised but happy when Stiles rolls onto his side and pulls him flush against him, spooning him from behind. 

“You’re stuck with me, Sourwolf.” He whispers, chuckling.  _ “Stuck.” _

Derek rolls his eyes fondly, and then rolls to face Stiles. “I know.” He says, kissing him chastely on the lips. “I am well aware.”

**-Ω-**

Derek in a tuxedo is… quite the sight. The trim black suit, with its tie and waistcoat the same color as his alpha eyes, is the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. He just can’t believe the school has let him bring him to Prom. More than that, he can’t believe Derek  _ agreed.  _ It might have something to do with the fact that Erica, Boyd, Scott, and Isaac are dancing together in a group, while Lydia and Jackson whirl in a surprisingly elegant duet not far from then. 

The bouncy tune playing shifts to something profoundly melancholy, and the DJ announces the last slow song of the night. Stiles makes his way over to where Derek leans against a column, and holds out a hand, which the werewolf takes with an easy grin. 

“I’d say,  _ ‘I’ll lead’,  _ but you’d just take it from me anyway.” Derek says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ shoulders. 

“God, you’re so whipped.” The younger man replies, smiling broadly, before he begins to sing along.  _ “‘I am not in Kansas, where I am, I don't know where, take me for a walk and blame this on the water dripping off the spear.’”  _

Derek grins like a fool. “I cannot believe you got the DJ to play this. Was it blackmail? Bribery? Both?” 

“Can’t give away all my secrets, or you’ll have no need for me.” Stiles shoots back, smirking. 

“You’re wrong.” Derek says, deadly serious. “I am always gonna need you, Stiles. You made damn sure of that a long time ago.”

**Author's Note:**

> Daaaaawww, I just love a cheesy ending. Humor me, I actually like this piece. Reviews and kudos offer a second of emotional fulfillment in a world ravaged by ascendant fascism, climate change, and Area 51 memes. Hope you guys enjoyed. Cheers.


End file.
